Red
by Shipperwolf
Summary: It wasn't his business before. He didn't like it, but it wasn't his business. Somehow, it was now. Caryl, post 3x11-ish, oneshot?


**Ollo readers!**

**This is another oneshot(?) set around 3x11 or so, inspired by and dedicated to _BSparrow. _If you haven't read her AU, _Stray_, you oughta. It's yummy goodness.**

**I disclaim all the TWD as usual, and please enjoy!**

* * *

He was startled awake by the sound of rapid footsteps, followed by whispers that carried up into his cell,

"Carol? You okay—"

"I'm fine, Hershel…thanks…"

Daryl groaned to himself groggily, reaching up to rub the sleep out of his eyes. The room around him was still pitch black, and aside from the retreating footsteps the prison was silent.

It was still late.

Everyone was out for the count.

Except Hershel, who was apparently on watch…

And Carol, who…

He twiddled his thumbs in the dark for all of five seconds before sitting up with a sigh and climbing out of the bunk.

* * *

Hershel nodded to him in silence as he passed the old man by, following the soft sounds to what served as their makeshift kitchen.

When he walked into the room another sound hit his ears: splashing.

Daryl could see her in the light of one of their battery-powered lanterns, leaning over the prep table, hands reaching into the pot they used to heat the baby's water. By now, he knew, the water left in it was ice cold.

But there she was, reaching in, cupping handfuls, and tossing it into her face with shuddering gasps.

His chest tightened at the rigid angles of her body, the way her back was bent over slightly and her legs seemed locked in a wide stance in front of the table. As if she'd rushed over to it in a damn hurry and was now frozen in place.

He watched, quiet, for a few moments as the splashing slowed and she finally straightened up enough for him to notice the fact that her hands were shaking slightly. Even in the dim light—which barely cast over a quarter of the room—he could make out the tremble as she set her palms against the table and exhaled heavily.

"Hey."

With a jerk she whirled around at his voice, and for a brief moment her eyes were wide and surprised, as if she didn't even recognize him…

And then she settled a split-second later; exhaled again, much softer, and smiled at him.

"Hey, what…what're you doin' awake?"

He hesitated, lingering sleepiness hindering his ears as he cocked his head to the side to listen to her scratchy, whispered response.

Folding his arms across his chest he shrugged and nodded her way,

"Comin' to check on you. Heard ya practically _dashin'_ in here from my cell—"

"Oh, damn…I woke you up, sorry…"

He shook his head as soon as the words left her mouth, and took a step in her direction.

"Nah, don't worry 'bout it," when she dipped her head away from his sight he leaned forward a bit, a creeping concern in his muscles,

"What's goin' on; you okay in here?"

When she lifted her head to look up at him he noticed for the first time the red silkiness of her eyes, evidence of tears and frantic rubbing. The pretty blue was darkened in the shitty light and her brows were crunched together as her smile faded into a sad half-grin.

She sighed again, leaned back against the table and bumped into the pot as she did so,

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, Daryl…I just…had a dream. A very vivid one…" again he had to strain to hear as her voice lowered even more with each word, "A very _bad_ one."

He nodded, his suspicions confirmed. She'd dealt with a few nightmares before, he remembered, back in the early winter after they'd left the farm. He remembered once or twice hearing her during his watch, jerking in her sleep and murmuring her little girl's name with tears in her voice.

He remembered biting his tongue at the sound and forcing his feet to stay put as not to find himself hovering over her in the dark, running a hand across her shaking back in a pathetic attempt to calm her…

But that'd been a long time ago. Months. This was a slightly different Carol: tougher, wiser, stronger in more ways than one…

The sheen of tears glistening in her eyes made him want to pry, but he stayed silent, stayed put, and waited for the right words to come to him.

Carol glanced around the room and shook her head, laughing quietly to herself.

Daryl frowned at the way she peered up at a random corner of the ceiling,

"Probably my fault for talking about him with Beth the other day…"

He felt as if his ears had been lit on fire, as if someone had punched him in the chest, _hard_. A sting in his lower lip signaled his sudden chewing of it, and he grimaced at the look she set on him.

"Who?"

He knew who.

He didn't know why he was bothering to ask..

"Ed. I…I mentioned him to Beth the other day…when you were gone. I guess he lingered in my brain a bit longer than I wanted because…"

She paused, held out her arms in exasperation and motioned to the room,

"I barely remember speaking to Hershel. I ran in here and started rinsing off my face because I was absolutely sure my eye was bleeding. I just…" He inhaled deeply, fingers curling into his palms as a wicked rush of understanding and panic and protectiveness and _anger_ seemed to seep into his veins, jolting him so far from sleep he couldn't even imagine it…

"I knew I was in the prison, I knew it was Hershel I was talking to, but I didn't realize Ed was gone, _dead_, until I started rinsing my face. I was convinced he was here. And he'd, well, punched me somethin' fierce."

She shook her head as she said it, laughing at herself again.

Daryl found nothing funny in her words.

Maybe it was the fact that they'd hardly spoken a single damn syllable _about_ Ed since he met his very deserved, bloody end almost a year back, but the image of the man—what details he could remember—flooded his sight and he blinked, tried to force it away.

She was quiet, watching him, and Daryl grit his teeth against a growl.

The thought of that short, slimy little _shit _she once called a husband rearing back with a balled fist and making contact with her face—

Daryl clamped his eyes shut as red blinded his vision.

The room spun for a moment and his palms stung. A loud, dull thud met his ears.

And then he heard her voice, clearer than before, worried, nearly in his _ear_,

"_Daryl—_"

He opened his eyes.

He'd moved.

Taken several long steps forward to come hovering over her, trapping her between his chest and the table. An arm had slipped forward and his fist had made contact with the old wooden surface just beside her waist.

His other hand was inches from her arm, fingertips dancing against the bare skin.

The red flashed white, and he made contact.

Laid a hand on her arm and gripped it as gently as he could,

"Sorry."

Her head craned a bit to meet his eyes,

"For what?"

He blinked.

_For not killing him the moment I realized what he was._

"Losin' my head. I…som'bitch is dead and gone,"

His fist loosened, slid from the table and Daryl didn't marvel much over the way it seemed to settle on her waist without his command,

"Can't hurt ya anymore."

She inhaled against him, deep, and lowered her head again.

He didn't miss the smile on her face as she did.

Droplets of cool water dripped onto his chest as she leaned forward into it.

"I know."


End file.
